Transient Desires (Commissario Brunetti #30)(72)

Alaimo smiled, as though he’d expected the question, and said. ‘Because it’s nothing special – a plain metal watch that might have cost thirty Euros – they give it to one of their kids or take it home and leave it in a drawer and forget about it, or maybe they wear it. If they’re wearing it, they can just change the battery when it stops, and it will tell the time again.’

‘And getting it on one of Borgato’s boats?’ Brunetti asked.

‘Why not on to his nephew?’ Griffoni asked.

The men looked at her in surprise.

‘Not likely,’ said Alaimo.

Brunetti said nothing but considered the possibility. He turned his attention to the view of the Giudecca across the water. Duso lived on this side, somewhere near Nico’s.

Marcello, he kept thinking, might have told Duso even more about what happened on the boat and – if he had been the man who went into the sea – his vain effort to save . . . to save one of them? All of them? His soul?

If it had been Marcello, his leap into the water had failed to save the woman or the women, and there would be no changing that. With Duso’s help, Brunetti could offer him another chance.

Duso met Brunetti on the terrace in front of Nico’s. The hour had not yet been changed, so there was still daylight at six, and the weather had blessed them and remained warm even after the sun had disappeared behind the distant Euganean Hills. Few other people sat on the terrace: eight, nine, but all were wearing only sweaters and jackets, taking advantage of the sun’s lingering generosity.

Duso asked for a coffee and Brunetti for a Pinot Grigio.

While they waited for their drinks to come, they made the predictable comments about the shortening days, the weekend ahead, when the hour would be moved back and the arrival of winter given no more resistance. After that, they simply sat and gazed off towards the west as the light gradually dimmed itself.

‘Have you seen Marcello?’ Brunetti finally asked.

Duso nodded.

‘When?’

‘Last night. He met me after his first day back at work, and we had a drink together.’

‘How did he seem?’

Duso stared suspiciously at Brunetti for some time and finally asked, ‘Why are you interested?’

Brunetti saw no reason not to tell him the truth. ‘Because I have a son who’s a few years younger than he and you are.’ Brunetti was interrupted by the arrival of the waiter, who set their drinks in front of them, added small bowls with peanuts and chips, and went to another table to take the order.

‘What does that change?’ Duso asked, sounding curious, not aggressive. He sipped at his coffee, which Brunetti noticed he drank without sugar this time.

Brunetti tasted his wine. They knew him here, so the wine was good. ‘I suppose it makes me protective.’

‘Of the ones who are like your son?’

‘No. It would be a lie to say that. But of some of them.’

‘Which ones?’

Brunetti had never thought about this. It was an instinctive and impulsive response he had to some people, especially the young, even some of the ones he arrested. Perhaps he felt protective of the ones who reminded him of his own younger self. He set his glass on the table and grabbed a few peanuts. He put them, one by one, into his mouth while he thought about what to say.

After he’d swallowed them all and had another sip of wine, he said, ‘I feel it for the ones who find themselves in trouble and don’t realize that they’re good. In the ethical sense.’ Brunetti said, not liking the pedantic sound of it when he heard himself say it. As if to alter his remark in some small way, he added, ‘While other people don’t believe they are.’

‘Are you talking about the people you arrest?’

‘No. Well, perhaps some of them,’ Brunetti answered, reaching for more peanuts.

Duso pulled the dish of potato chips towards him and started eating. ‘So you think Marcello’s good?’ he asked, keeping his eyes on the chips.

‘He took the girls to the hospital, didn’t he?’

Duso’s hand froze halfway towards the bowl, and he gave Brunetti a look of open surprise. ‘What else could we do?’

Brunetti was struck by the spontaneity of Duso’s response. It was not a real question but a response provoked by shock. What else, indeed?

Brunetti thought he’d push him a bit farther and see the true direction of his feelings. Speaking with dispassion, he said, ‘You could have taken them back to where you met them. No one would have seen you, not at that hour. Just put them on the riva by the bridge and go home.’

The crumbled pieces of potato chip fell on to the wooden deck beneath their feet. Within seconds, the lurking sparrows were upon them, feasting, hopping on Brunetti’s feet in their greed.

It didn’t take Duso very long to work it out. When he did, he said, ‘That was some sort of test, wasn’t it?’ He spoke with shock he tried to present as contempt. ‘Of my “ethical sense”, as you call it.’ He grabbed at the napkins the waiter had left on the table and wiped at the grease and crumbs on his hand, then crumpled the napkins and tossed them on to the table. But, Brunetti observed, he did not get up and walk away.

‘Which you passed,’ he told Duso in a far softer voice.

‘So what?’ Duso asked aggressively.